The heads may be chopped, but with a pagdi atop, may it never be bent in obeisance.A tradition that was also the genesis of Rajasthan's fertile folklore.
DESPITE such inherent pride in Rajasthan's fabled chivalry, the lavish turbans which represent it are fast being replaced by Western caps and florid, readymade headgear. Some pagdis, long since extinct, exist only in the sedulous collection of Mahendra Singh Nagar of Jodhpur, who has spent over seven years in an attempt to revive the dying tradition of turban-tying.
His hunt through Rajasthan's sand-duned deserts, arid scrublands and vibrant bazaars has yielded over 150 turban styles. That's barely half, the researcher sadly admits, of the state's over 250 pagdi-styles. He hopes to resuscitate it—with his book Turbans of Rajasthan, articles in lush travelogues and exhibitions in international festivals.
Singh, now assistant director of the Mehrangarh Fort Museum, as a post-graduate in political science had zilch experience in tracking down turbans, but was coaxed into the enterprise by Jodhpur's Maharajah Gaj-singhji, who was concerned about the gear's eclipse. "My first assignment was disastrous. I travelled all over Jalore district, collected 28 turbans and stowed them away in the car. Little realising, that if a turban isn't stitched at the folds, it would come apart. After a bumpy ride back, I was almost in tears to see them all unspooled," he recalls.
In contrast, a turban-tracking expedition today is incomplete without a tailor and loads of starch to stiffen the drapes of material, and skull-shaped cushions to rest the pagdis en route. Coupled with expert advice from UK's Victoria Albert Museum on preservation of the exhibits for posterity.
Now, 150 turbans later, Singh is a wiser man. "Earlier, at an exhibition if the host asked for a rare turban, I'd comply. Today, I wouldn't part with it for any price.
His experience with the Dhaulpur pagdi only strengthened his resolve. Over 80-feet of soft pink cotton woven into a rope, coiled into a umbrella-wide headgear, tilting cockily to the right. Today, it squats with princely splendour in the Fort's Museum showcase, with others from his collection. Its recreation was a supreme test of Singh's patience. When he approached the Maharani of Dhaulpur, she regretfully informed
him that the Maharajah no longer patronised it, suggesting instead, that he try pagdiwallah Hari Singh Rajoriya, 80. The latter wasn't sure he could twine the outmoded pagdi as he'd given it up 30-odd years ago. Then, a cricket match kept Rajoriya glued to the radio. So, the pagh took two-and-a-half-long-days to recreate the turban.
Matching it in magnificence is the brilliant red Gavariya turban from Barmar, worn by nomads, with crevices for a mirror, comb and even a terracotta pot for tobacco. "One can see them dipping into the turbans for coins, as it acts as a purse," says Singh. The Rabari turban worn by shepherds in Mar-war has a silver chain with a tiny pot of collyrium and mirror dangling from its deep spirals. Kalbelias, nomadic snakecharmers, wore a riot of colours—exuberant yellow, red and black showing off a row of mirrors.
The Kulhedar pagh, worn by Pathans of Jaisalmer, makes wearers a good one-foot taller, with its pointed white hummock looped with brown cotton. The Laungi, worn by Muslim pirs in Jaisalmer and Barmer, is splashed with geometric yellow, green, red and white patterns on resplendent silk. Jaipur's silversmiths wore a deep gold-band on sparkling white cotton, while the Lahariya, with its exquisite pink-wave design, was worn as an indulgence in the monsoons. But it's the wedding turbans that outdo all others with their striking plumes of gold.
The legends behind the turbans are equally kaleidoscopic, says Singh, relating the tale of how, after incessant fighting between their parents, Akbar's grandson, Shahzada Khurram, and Rana Pratap's grandson, Karni Singh, buried the hatchet by symbolically exchanging pagdis. According to poet Sirhohi, it was Akbar's regret that Rana Pratap died without bowing his pagh to Akbar.
"In Rajasthan, dialect changes with every 25 km, so does the headgear. It indicates caste, financial status, occasions for joy or mourning. Earlier, the dress code had strict instructions on turban style when visiting nobility. To wear it otherwise, would be an insult to the host, meeting him bare-headed would be an outrage," Singh explains.
Besides, the turban adds a splash of colour to a monotonous dry land. Ochre for the sage, saffron at weddings, white at funerals, mourners wore khaki, blue or dark maroon. Black signified protest, spring was announced by the lively white-red-falgunia turbans.
The turban, which goes by many names—pagh, pecha, safa, molia, lapeta and amama—has as many symbolic messages. A warrior's turban, carried home to his wife, would signify his death in battle, while superstitious villagers would anticipate misfortune on sighting a bare-headed man. An honourable man could mortgage his pagdi for any amount, and the son who inherits his dead father's turban, also inherits his position. The tradition of siropao, presenting turbans to the groom's family, binds both families.
Beyond the symbolism lies its practical use. "In desert conditions, it protects against the sun and any unexpected attack on the head. When the Bhats of Barmar hold a controversial panchayati meeting, they wear huge turbans for protection in case of a scuffle, with a metal piece embedded in it as additional safeguard. Nomads use turbans to tie up dacoits, draw water from a well or even filter muddy water," says Singh.
When unfurled, turbans may stretch from nine-feet to 30-metres of cotton, Dhaka mulmul, georgette or silk. "We need to keep the rich tradition alive, at least on formal occasions. It's common to hire paghwallahs for formal occasions, as they tie one in 10-15 minutes for Rs 10 to Rs 25. Readymade turbans, available from Rs 60 onwards, have contributed to the downfall of the tradition," rues the researcher.
Singh's turban trail ground to a halt in mid '97, when he took to translating historical Marwari documents into a book and collecting folk dresses fast being replaced by synthetic ubiquitous western ones.
Yet, he still gets an occasional letter from some remote Rajasthan village, with details of some perishing pagdi. The senders are aware that these turbans, which once spawned legendary songs, may die unsung if they don't find a final place of rest in Jodhpur's Fort Museum.
